


A La Carte

by crownorclover, Northisnotup



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Benzaiten Steel Lives, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Canon Non-Binary Character, First Meetings, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, Other, TNAminibang, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Nureyev, minibang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownorclover/pseuds/crownorclover, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: As surprising as it may seem, Juno didn’t set out to become a baker, much less apatissier. Which is not a word Juno would ever use to describe himself but one that has been attributed to him despite his many, loud and varied protests. See, he didn’t so much open a bakery as have one thrust upon him with the impassioned demand that whatever he do with it, reopen it, remodel it, or wreck it completely, he commit to that action, darling.Three years later he has one of the most successful shops in Hyperion City.-Peter Nureyev walked away from everything he ever knew to start a new life. And then did it again. And again.Many years later, he has a suitcase and five portfolios under different names.Clearly, this is a love story.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 19
Kudos: 62
Collections: Trans Nureyev Agenda Server Minibang!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This! As you may have noticed! Is not a completed work. Because god has punished me for my hubris and my work is never finished. jk, it's because I'm a mess and this got way out of hand. It has a subplot and mysterious backstories and a whole lot of unnecessary froof that bakery au's really don't *need* but I had a lot of fun. This is a silly, campy, self indulgent fic about love and I really hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i've enjoyed writing it. Sage and Rob have been absolute joys to work with and I thank them heartily for putting up with my many and varied creative whimsies. 
> 
> The ever lovely Sage (leetlepansyboy) will be creating a podfic for this!  
> and the amazingly talented Rob (crownorclover) Will be posting art of a future scene!

The noise in Hyperion City is relentless, a swelling cacophony of people and machines all crammed together and never stopping, day or night - and it's the only lullaby Juno Steel has ever known. He can’t sleep without it, in fact. For him, the shriek of sand against the dome, the rushing of vehicles on the go and the cries of citizens are what the lap of ocean waves or the pattern of rain on a roof must be to other people. It’s the familiar, reassuring heartbeat of the city he grew up in and calls home. The city he once hoped to save, and instead found himself nearly crushed under the weight of its constant, noisy movement.

And speaking of noise — 

Juno groans, and slaps at his comms, trying to silence the upbeat jingle that cuts through his dreams, painfully out of place against the background hum of the city. “What?” he growls, half awake and bitter about it. He squints his eye at the comm screen and groans again, longer and louder. “Benten. What are you calling me for, it’s my _one_ day off, bug Annie.”

And the worst part is, Benten knows it's his day off because Rita always schedules stream nights for the night before. Because it’s the one day where he gets to stay up and sleep in, the _one_ day that someone who is not Juno Steel takes care of accepting the flour order, or the sugar order, of maintaining the ovens, prepping the pre-made dough that has rested and risen overnight, and undergoes the grueling, precise work of timing every unique batch.

“You know,” his brother’s voice floats lazily out of the speaker, “you’re literally the boss, you could have more than one day off.”

“I am the boss, and it’s my god damned bakery, so back off,” Juno snaps back.

He gets one day, because he would probably throw a tantrum and burn his shop to the ground before he allowed anyone to take over any more the work he loves so much.

“Well, excuse me for assuming you’d want to know your kitchen is still closed, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” his brother fake-grumbles back at him, and Juno can hear him grunt just as he hears the large delivery door to the bakery below him roll open through the speaker and the floor. “I didn’t know it was Annie’s turn to cover you, so it was either call you, and let you deal with _your_ own business, or, wake you up anyway when I tried to make _my_ own dinner and then have you yell at me because I _didn’t_ wake you up in time to open!” he huffs, and then adds, almost fondly: “You weird, workaholic mess.”

“I’m ignoring most of that,” Juno says warningly, hauling himself out of bed and trying to force his bleary brain to focus on the problem.

Ben hums, breezy and unconcerned. He’s slurring just slightly, which means he’s tanked and is likely going to pass out as soon as he has some kind of carbs without even bothering to change or remove his makeup. Great.

Wait.

“What do you mean ‘still closed?’”

“Well, it’s not now! I just… hey, Swoops, how do you turn the ovens on again?”

“Don’t!” Juno snaps. “Do. Not. Touch. Them.”

“Ugh, Juno!”

“I will be down in five minutes. I mean it, Benzaiten, do not touch the ovens.”

The last thing he needs is to be carting his brother to the QwikMed and losing more time when even in the unlikely event he can make it down in five minutes, which he knew was a stretch when he said it, he’ll still be almost an hour behind schedule.

And hell, that’s not the worst set back he’s ever had, but Juno knows one thing about Hyperion City that will always hold true: if the dust doesn't choke you, the storm will.

Without time to even quickly do his hair, he definitely doesn't have time to pick an eye today. Which means when he finally makes it down, bursting into the kitchen as fast as his clogs will let him, he’s adjusting an eyepatch over his missing eye, his hair is still white with conditioner residue and pulled back into a frizzy puff that Juno is already dreading having to deal with later. Much later, if he has anything to say about it, but his face is at least washed and his clothes are at least clean and Ben has at least fumbled through making him a coffee. Hairnet, on; apron, secure and that — that is when Juno finds the storm. 

With no one there to accept the delivery, the sugar order was never dropped off.

Juno takes his first sip of coffee in wordless fury, and then swears, as creatively and filthily as he knows how — to Benten’s drunken delight.

As if that wasn't enough — the dough meant for this morning was left in the fridge. And sure, yeah, a lot of their dough’s proof in the walk-in fridge instead of at room temperature...except for the quick breads that Vespa throws together before she leaves for the day. The doughs that need that room temperature rise because it's the only rise they get. The doughs that Juno needs to supply the local eateries he has contracts with. The doughs that get punched out and shaped as soon as Juno enters the kitchen and go into the ovens as soon as they are ready. 

The ovens. 

That Juno is now half an hour behind bringing to proper temperature.

It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. Even if Juno wanted to panic, which he doesn’t, it’s going to be fine. These are all problems that Juno has dealt with over his three years of running _The Carte Blanche_. 

But never all at once. 

All put together, stacked on top of one another like a flimsy house of cards that could collapse at any second…that’s a rat of a different colour.

“You got this?” Ben drawls out, already beginning to blink slowly and clearly biting back a yawn.

“Yup.” Juno smacks his lip on the ‘p.’

“You need any help...?”

“Nope.”

“Alright,” Ben singsongs back. So very ‘don’t come crying to me when this all blows up in your face!’

Juno snorts, as familiar with the tone as he is with their face. Well, you know. Plus or minus some details and features. It’s the same tone he used three years ago, when Juno got this place.

As surprising as it may seem, Juno didn’t set out to become a baker, much less a _patissier_. Which is not a word Juno would ever use to describe himself but one that has been attributed to him despite his many, loud and varied protests. ‘Cause when he inherited the bakery, it wasn’t a bakery. And he didn’t so much inherit it as have it thrust upon him with the impassioned demand that whatever he do with it, reopen it, remodel it, or wreck it completely, he commit to that action, darling.

 _The Carte Blanche_ when Juno was first given the code to the glitching, automatic door was a shrouded, defunct bar that hadn’t been open in more than seven years.

 _The Carte Blanche_ when Juno first stepped inside, was a ruin of a place that still held the echo of being well lived in. He ran his hand over the sim-wood bar top and came back with a fist full of dust. Underneath that, Juno could see that though it was in desperate need of sanding and staining — it had clearly once been the focal point of the whole business. Which was completely unsurprising if you knew Buddy Aurinko, and as she would say: who in these parts did not. 

In that moment, _The Carte Blanche_ in its moldering disuse had reminded Juno of himself.

Sad, empty, and generally lacking a purpose or reason to continue existing.

And in the same way a house fire burns after a six year old tries to bake a cake for the first time; and in the same way post childbirth that a parent looks at their squalling, bloody newborn and cries for how full their heart is, Juno Steel fell in love.

Which is to say: quickly, by accident, unconditionally, and all consuming.

“Eggs good for you, buddy?”

Benten hums in thought before making a wordless negating grunt. “Fry bread?”

He’d have to heat the pan, melt the butter, whisk the eggs into milk and spices for the batter….Juno scowls. “Not enough time.”

Ben loses his battle and yawns widely, too tired to even cover his mouth properly. “‘Kay, just toast then, please.”

Most mornings, they eat together. Benten coming home from the Valley right as Juno starts the ovens. Most mornings, they have time to linger over eggs, or fry bread or whatever else Juno can whip up as he communes with his coffee and they talk — about his shift, about Juno’s sleep, about anything that pops into their heads as Juno wakes up and Benten winds down. Then Benten will do his dishes, and press a kiss slick with butter or grease or syrup to Juno’s nose or cheek or forehead to say thank you or I love you or good night. 

But today, Juno doesn’t have time to eat with his twin, or fuss over his smeared make up and obvious bad mood. The most he can do is butter some day old bread and smear it with leftover jam while his mind tries to solve forty different problems at once while moving twice as fast as he normally has to, on half as much sleep.

God, he loves his life.

“How about I make fry bread for your breakfast?” Juno suggests, generously willing to bend their evening routine. As a treat.

“That is…an acceptable compromise and why you’re the best sibling.”

Oh, and Ben must be tired if he’s willing to admit that out loud. “I’m definitely the best sibling in the room, currently.”

“Lick rust!” Ben pronounces cheerfully, and then smirks, moving his thick brows in a sly wiggle. “Or, if you wanted something else to lick, Todd’s been asking after you again.”

“Todd,” Juno says, with cheerful disgust, scoring the first of the loaves on their way into the ovens. Having rested but not risen, their flavor won’t be as intense as normal, but the texture should be fine. Probably. “—is a pushy dick.” 

“So… have I been asleep for thirty years or is that not your type?”

“No!” Caught out, Juno makes a face. “Shut up! Todd doesn’t take no for an answer, okay, and whatever else you may think I’m into, I’m not into that.”

Ben makes a disbelieving noise around a mouth full of bread and jam. “Still not over your heart ache, huh?”

“I,” Juno snaps, “am just fine. I’ve been fine for months. You, for some reason, are really hung up on this whole thing.”

“Okay, one, no you’re not. Two, yeah duh. I dunno if you noticed, Swoops, but you kinda fell out of the whole dating game after…”

Juno points a warning finger. “Don’t.”

Ben throws his hands up, quick to appease. “I wasn’t gonna!”

Yeah, right.

Still, in a quiet apology he spreads butter, fluffy and whipped with honey over Ben’s next piece, and slides over the special starberry jam Rita imported from Neptune before deciding she didn’t like it. Juno had half a thought to save it to make something, but the sour-tart of it will compliment the creamy sweet of the butter. Or something. Flavor pairings are Vespa’s job, but Juno thinks he does a fair hand at them.

“I’m just saying. It was nice to see you get back out there, that’s all.” Ben spoons on a disgusting amount of the expensive orange paste and groans happily into his first bite. 

“You didn’t even like Alessandra!” Juno cries out, stunned into stillness and, honestly, a little offended.

“And it turns out I was right not to, just like I’m always right about your taste.”

Rushing past, Juno sends a pointed look at the jam Ben is now dipping a spoon into. 

“Your taste in partners,” Benten says, unrepentant. “I _was_ right, okay, just look at how she-”

“Oh, wow, I cannot believe how much we are not talking about this!” Juno interrupts, throwing the last of the dry ingredients into the big stand mixers and turning them on, drowning out any but the most determined of twin brothers. 

“Juno!” Benten’s voice twisting from light and playful to stern catches him where...yeah, it still hurts a little bit. 

He sighs, sweeping close under the guise of taking Ben’s plate. “It sucked, okay? The whole situation…sucked. But it wasn’t her fault, and it’s not Tess’ fault. We weren’t. It wasn’t ever serious.”

“Juno,” Ben says his name gently and he winces, knowing that whatever comes next is going to be honestly brutal or brutally honest. Hell, if he’s lucky, maybe it’ll be a bit of both. “I don’t get it. But I get you. And you don’t have relationships that aren’t serious. I dunno that you can. I just wish...”

If Ben were more sober and Juno’s morning less frantic, he would be getting hugged right now. But thankfully, Benten isn’t even very touchy on his good days and Juno has to focus on the dough of their various spice rolls coming together. “That I would think with my head instead of my heart, I know.”

“Oh, I’ve given up on that,” Ben smacks his lips on the last bit of jam slathered crust and starts gathering his things up, swaying slightly as the food and the time hit him all at once.

Juno should let it go. He’s got all the evidence he needs, and sure it’s all circumstantial, but it adds up. Adds up to a damning picture, and Juno shouldn’t need the confirmation. Shouldn’t keep pushing well past when he damn well knows he should stop.

Alessandra and Tess announced their engagement last night. 

Tess needed structure when she got back Solar-side.

Tess works security for the Vixen Valley now. 

Juno pulled some strings to get her the job.

Ben hasn’t forgiven him for that yet.

“So what, then?”

“Hm?”

“What do you wish I would do?”

Ben presses a sticky kiss to the side of Juno’s face, coming away smeared in flour and Juno knows he must have a lipstick print in day glo orange smudged over his cheekbone to match. “I just want you to be happy, twinny.”

Juno rolls his eyes, but fondly. “Go,” he growls, not even half as menacing as he could be. He never is, these days.

“To hell?” Ben smiles, all cheek.

“To bed!”

Ben laughs his way up the rickety stairs that connect the kitchen to their apartment overhead. 

Bread is easy. It’s not Juno’s favourite thing they make, but it’s simple. Bread just wants to be bread. It’s flour, salt, water, sometimes yeast and while it’s a painstaking effort to make it perfectly, it’s easy enough to do it at all. Bread is forgiving. Imperfect doughs become the starter for another. Imperfect loaves become croutons and crumbs and stuffing. Imperfect flavor can be masked with any number of toppings or spreads. 

They didn’t make bread, when he was growing up. Juno learned a good many things from Sarah Steel, most of them unintentionally, but she never showed them how to nourish themselves. Of the few things about her Juno can make himself remember with any type of fondness, it was how awful she was in the kitchen. The rare way she smiled at him without any malice at all when he started learning to cook and bringing things home from the Hanumanian food stall Sasha’s dad’s ran. Sarah lived on quick meals, cereal, eggs, fruits and vegetables. Whatever was simple and required no effort at all. But the first thing Juno ever cooked, using the term as loosely as it’s possible to be used, was bread. 

Even now, he can remember dragging a kitchen chair across the bumpy, cracked tile, of wobbling dangerously until Benten held him still and opening up the bag of bread — the too sweet smell, the too soft fluff of it under his tiny hands as he jammed it into the toaster because Ben was hungry after he refused to eat the lumpy, plain oatmeal Sarah gave them for breakfast. 

Even on good mornings, there’s not enough time to knead every dough by hand, and even if there was, not all breads are worth the effort. 

Some though. 

There’s time enough between one batch coming out and another going in for Juno to attend the spoiled little princling — which is what Benten named their starter when Juno first started experimenting with it, around three years ago. It was named Sophie first, before Benten realized what a chore it was to maintain and how often it needed attention. Then it became the little princeling. 

And then, it began to ferment.

Juno breathes in the sweet-sour of the bubbling beast with a tired grin, and gets to work. He doesn’t bother to turn the radio on. He doesn’t need any background noise but what’s already there to lose himself in this place. A hot, frantic hour of working with dough follows. Punching down, rolling out, shaping, dusting, glazing, scoring and finally baking. Baskets and cooling racks are slowly filled as Juno grunts and heaves, rotating baking sheets and trays in and out of the oven and walk-in cooler. 

“Decaffeinated Jovian tea with two sugars, please.” 

Somehow, Jet always appears just as Juno is finishing plating his breakfast. No idea how the big guy does it, but without fail, Juno will lay out the roll, bun or sweetmeat he intends to serve, add two sugars to that god awful tea Jet loves and the man himself will walk through the door. A couple of years ago, Juno would have accused him of bugging the place. Nowadays, he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to. 

“It’s been three years and you still don’t trust me to know your order?” Juno gripes, enjoying the very rare moment of catching the big guy off guard. He doesn’t startle or jump, of course not. Not Jet Sikuliaq. But Juno is rewarded with the subtlest of double takes and swells smugly with it.

“Yes, But Annie has only been here for six months, and only works mornings once a week,”  
Jet says reasonably. He always sounds reasonable. That’s what makes him so dangerous. “and sometimes less than that. If she cannot be trusted to come to work, I don’t see why she should be trusted with my order. Good morning, Juno.”

“Lay off, big guy. Annie’s got a lot going on, okay? I’m sure she has a good reason.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Well,” Juno sputters, “no, but,”

“Then we cannot know. What we can do is infer from the information we have. Annie is not here. She has not called. This is not the first time.”

“Jet. Come off it. I’m here, we’re not far behind. It’s fine.”

“Annie Wire is an adult, you cannot keep shielding her from,”

“Hi, Sasha!” Juno interrupts.

“I am not Sasha Wire. I am Jet Sikuliaq.”

“Then stop sounding like her!” Juno pulls back his irritation to avoid slamming the fridge door. “Look, I’ll talk to her, okay?”

Appeased, Jet moves to finish his breakfast. “These have the sweet bean filling, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I noticed you favoring them yesterday,” Juno mumbles, changing the mixing bowl to avoid Jet’s eyes. 

“Not all of Rita’s suggestions are to my tastes.”

Juno snorts. He can say that again. Calling Rita’s tastes 'eclectic’ is being nice. Mostly, they’re god-awful to anyone but her.

“But this was a good one. I hope you will continue to make them.”

Still, when she gets it, she gets it. Juno tries not to glow with pride and mostly fails. “She wants to call them the Model Rita’s and add them to the daily special rotation.”

“I believe it will be a success.”

“Yeah,” Juno smiles, “me too.”

Without much more fanfare the morning batch is loaded into the Ruby7, and Jet takes off for their first delivery. He’ll have to make a second trip, but despite the delay this morning, he’s confident that all the deliveries will be on time. And if he’s confident in it, Juno can be too. Jet’s the best. 

Buddy only hires the best. 

And Juno marks it as growth; he doesn’t wonder, anymore, why she wastes her time with him. 

Dawn doesn’t mean the same thing in the twisting maze of Hyperion City that it might for the rest of the galaxy. Hell, sometimes dawn doesn’t mean the same thing for Hyperion City that it does for Hyperion City. Sure, in Uptown and the wealthier boroughs, it means watching the sun peak over the horizon and kiss the highscrapers, banishing the dark back to the other side of the planet. But in the Hyperion City Juno knows, dawn starts out as the slow shifting of shadows. Dawn is the weak, watery yellow light that steals the bite from the flashing neon and saps the streetlights of their glow. And it’s dawn that heralds the real activity of the shop. Dawn is when the humming background of the city is layered with the harmony and melodies of people who make Juno’s life a living thing. Vespa’s rasping brass, accompanying her strong, sure hands, taking over the prep and detail work. Then the crisp commanding, forward notes that belong to no one but Buddy Aurinko. Followed quickly by the sharp, vibrating highs that herald Rita wherever she goes and the bright, airy notes of Julian as he comes in, last but not least. 

With her usual cutthroat efficiency, Buddy takes measure of the situation, not bothering to exclaim over Juno’s presence before she kisses Vespa’s cheek and swans off to grease palms or make whatever deals with whatever devils necessary to get them whatever they need to last them the day. Sugar, in this case. Vespa, as is typical, snarls and snaps until _her_ station, formerly Juno’s station, is free. He’s learned not to take it personally. Sure, that took the better part of three years, but he never was a quick study even when he did attend school. 

The music of the shop is louder today, but still comforting. “Annie?” Rita’s voice warbles back to the kitchens before she does, carrying a tray. 

“No show, she call you?” Juno’s empty coffee is swapped out for a fresh one. 

“No, I ain’t heard from her either. You think we should call Mz. Wire?” Fresh mint is muddled with sugar for Vespa’s tea, who grunts with thanks while she measures out feed for The Little Princling. 

“No!” Juno very suddenly wishes Buddy hadn’t swept out so quickly, he hates having to be the bad guy...not that he thinks of himself like that. It’s not all white knights and black hats in his mind, that would be ridiculous, as a grown ass man — Juno grunts, pounding his rolling pin against the sheets of frozen butter to help shake off those old, clinging thoughts. “Annie’s not a kid anymore. She’ll take my closing shift if she bothers to show up today. If not, we’ll make it work. We always do.” 

“But, boss! What if something real bad happened? Like, oh! What if she was —'' There's an Earl Grey latte for Julian, still waking up and focused on wrapping yesterday’s leftovers for food bank delivery and Juno’s special spiced cocoa mix topped with mylk for herself.

Juno cuts her off before she can really get going. “If we haven’t heard from her by close, we’ll call Sasha okay? It’s one shift, she doesn’t deserve to get raked over the coals for one shift, okay?” 

“Hmph,” Rita sniffs, clearly not happy with the answer but not willing to dig her kitten heels in over it. “fine by me, Boss, but if you’re gonna hop on til you gotta fix your face before the rush!” Rita bustles out just as quickly as came.

“Hey,” he complains to no one in particular. 

Huh, maybe he does just like the sound of his own voice.

“She’s not wrong, Juno!” Julian sings, “You know half of a café’s draw is having a pretty face behind the counter!”

“So why do we put me on till for the lunch rush, huh?”

“Oh, stop it,” Julian says with a pretty, practiced, pout. “You know very well how you look in the mirror, and frankly it’s unfair to the rest of us.”

“Yeah!” Rita calls, “Except when you’re all scowly or when you get mad and that big vein in your forehead starts to get all—”

“Rita! Dearest, you’re making the vein appear _right now_ and you know how it frightens me!” Julian says, more to Rita but still facing Juno. “I hate to see beauty marred so unjustly, you know I do.”

Vespa snorts and annoyance itches down Juno’s spine like an insect. The morning’s frantic rush has left her station looking like a dust storm swept through and Vespa’s all puffed up like an alley cat about it. 

Thankfully, Juno can take all of the aggression that Vespa’s snide asides build in him and take it out on the dough he’s laminating. pounding down and folding and rolling out the sheets just as quickly as he can in the roaring heat. The trick is to keep the butter cold, and between the ovens and Juno’s own hands running hot it’s more skill than luck. 

(Juno gets it. Even at her worst, even at his worst, even when they rip into each other with all the care of Martian bird-spiders fighting over territory, claws and fur flying — Juno can’t ever fault her for needing her things exactly in their places. For needing order and routine and rhythm. He can’t, not when he knows what he knows:

Vespa used to be a doctor, and she isn’t one anymore. Not because she’s incapable. Not because her hands are unsteady, but because she doesn’t trust herself. 

Vespa doesn’t drive. Instead, Buddy works the same hours, and they come and go together, as a unit. 

Vespa mutters under her breath, things Juno isn’t supposed to hear over the ambient noise of the shop, things to people that don’t exist anymore, if they ever did. 

Vespa knows everything they make by heart, and she won’t ever make anything without a recipe in front of her. 

Juno’s mind tucks these puzzle pieces away and Juno very carefully does not assemble them into a picture. He gets it.) 

“You don’t have to work here, Julian,” Juno says, instead of any of the sharp defensive words that leap to the back of his tongue. He swallows them back the same way someone might trim thornes from a rose, carefully, with deliberate intent. 

He means it, too. Julian is wealthy two times over. Firstly from the modelling work he did through his last marriage, and then from the inheritance he gained when his husband passed. But Julian never belonged in the world of his late husband. He faked it, of course, managing his husband’s social calendar and philanthropic commitments, but he didn’t have friends, didn’t thrive. 

No one can exist on love, alone. Juno knows that better than most. 

“But I do! Until I find something better that is,” he winks, the same way he always does. Two steps in a familiar dance. 

Julian doesn’t _have_ to work here. But he does. 

When Tony died, Juno heard about it fourth hand. Not from Julian, who he’d fallen out of touch with, not from the news streams, or even gossip. No, Juno heard about it from a trashy headline on one of the last forms of print media still left in the galaxy — The Hyperion Drift. 

And when Juno finally stopped dragging his heels and went to pay his respects to the dead husband of an old friend, he’d found…Well, he found Julian. All alone in a big, empty house. Bright eyed and clearly at his wits end, still waiting for his husband to come home and tell him what was expected of him. It was sad, and infuriating and a little too close to what-could-have-been. 

They fought. Juno wouldn’t be able to recount the specifics now, but he wasn’t kind. Grief takes many forms but the most insidious is that — that waiting. The freezing of time like any moment your lost loved one will come back and make everything right again. 

And Julian had been waiting for months. 

“Juno, please, just tell me what I should do!” 

“Anything! Jeez, Julian, get out of this mausoleum and back into the real world. Get a job!”

“Where? Doing what? Juno, I wouldn’t even know where to start! Maybe one of Tony’s friends…”

“I’m hiring,” He’d blurted. “Or, hell, if not me I know ten other places looking for somebody.”

“You’d...you’d hire me? For what?”

“Make coffee, do deliveries. I don’t care. Look, I know it’s way under your pay grade, nowadays but, just. You’re alive, Julian. Don’t waste it.” 

He’d been the first one through the doors the next day. Seven am. Demanding to know where his apron was and why it wasn’t stamped with the logo, because ‘really, Juno, you need consistent imagery, it’s all part of the look! You’re not selling a croissant, you’re selling the dream of a croissant!’

It’s been two years and Juno still doesn’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but he’s got the logo on the aprons now, so that’s something, right? 

Officially, the doors of _The Carte Blanche_ open at half past and within minutes, Julian’s taking care of the first few caffeine deprived suits who come in wandering in off the streets while Rita focuses on what she does best — making their frankenstein, incomprehensible order and delivery service work as if by magic and not actually speaking to the customers at all because if she does, Juno is going to have to lose it.

Rita is good at a great many things.

Hell, she’s probably a solid 25% of the reason Juno has survived to forty. 

But it’s a rare type of person who can take what she dishes out, especially when that dish isn’t exactly what they ordered.

Buddy returns, triumphant. And moves her attention onto…something else. Juno’s not paying attention at that point. A few things filter into his narrowed focus — Jet humming along to the radio that was turned on at some point his next few stops in, low and brassy. Vespa’s rasping laugh, surprising for its rarity. But until the Rita alarm goes off, Juno sinks gladly into mindless joy of mixing, rolling and piping, creating _The Carte Blanche_ ’s primary attraction and the reason Juno can make himself get up at three am every day: their pastries. 

“Boss?”

Cream puffs, chocolate eclairs, croissants, madeleines, macrons.

“Boss!”

What gets made depends on the day and availability. As much as Juno would love to, they don’t have the money, room or staff to make every type of treat, every single day. 

“ _Mistah Steel_!”

“What?” Juno looks up from the glaze he’s drizzling over the madelines and, oh, would you look at that — the Rita alarm is going off. “When did the morning rush end?”

“When it got to nine, same way it always does, Boss. Now you gotta go or you ain’t gonna have no time to put your face on before lunch rush starts!”

Juno groans, but takes his apron off. Grudgingly.

Not because Rita told him to, but — yeah, okay, because she told him to. 

“Who’s bright idea was it to have me on till for this?” He complains by rote, but his heart isn’t in it. 

Truth is, he loves this place. He’d do anything for it, and the people he has here. Including but not limited to, customer service during the busiest part of the day.

“Face! Unless…ooh Mistah Steel, you ain’t one of those, those robot impersonators are you?!”

“Rita, that was a stream we watched last night. They’re not real.”

“But!”

Jet, of course, jumps on the idea of a conspiracy theory. Julian soothes Rita, while Buddy plays devil’s advocate and Vespa fans the flames of whatever side she feels is funnier. It’s hectic, and loud, and more than a little bit overwhelming and it’s his. 

* * *

As he doesn't need an alarm, he doesn't set one. 

In addition to having an incomparable internal clock, he's been conditioned from a young age to wake with the sunrise, whenever that happened to be, for whatever planet they happened to be on. 

And so, instead of the strident sounds of an alarm to interrupt his dreamless sleep, Peter Nureyev wakes leisurely to the sepia tones of the sun as it pierces through the dome surrounding Mars capital city, climbs the bars on his fourth floor apartment's windows and finally, streaks across the naked panes of his face.

Another man might linger in the warm comfort of his bed, under the rays of the sun which turn his skin from pale tawny to glowing gold. But Nureyev is not another man. And this is not his bed. It is a bed. Just as this is a planet, a city, in the gravity of a sun. None of it belongs to him, and yet conversely, it is his for the taking. 

The routine of the morning flows swiftly: a quick shower, his armour - fashionable clothes and flawless make up, and then down three flights of stairs to the little shop of no little renown he is stationed at currently. 

Like the bed and apartment and much else, it is not his shop. But a name won him an interview and his talent won him a chair and money paves the way for all else. 

“Good. Morning. Sugar,” purrs the sultry, ridiculous voice of the secretary. “And you do make it a lovely mornin’ Mister, why I swear the day gets brighter for having you in it.”

Nureyev smiles winningly.

He likes her, the secretary, that is. Nova is not what anyone would call ‘gifted’ at what she does. But she’s charming and fun and actually quite good at talking to people. All of which on top of the fact that she is filthy rich and owns this shop, or, rather, she owns the building...and probably this entire street, means that no matter her lack of organizational talent, she will remain gainfully employed.

“Now, when are you gonna stop teasin’ me and sweep me away from this dull, and dreary work?”

“Oh, Nova,” Nureyev croons, matching her level of emotion effortlessly, despite the hour and the lack of caffeine. “light of my life, keeper of my…”

She gasps.

“Schedule!”

She pouts. 

“Come now,” he teases, “I have not the means to keep you in the life to which you’ve become accustomed! I...could never make you happy, dearest. Not as I am now. I must...continue my work!”

Nova sniffs with feigned affront and hands over his scheduling book. “You are runnin’ out of time, Mister. One of these days I am gonna meet the man of my dreams and you are gonna regret lettin’ me get away.” 

“As soon as that author comes to town, yes?” Nureyev nods distractedly toward the creased cover of the novel ever present at her desk and her excited chatter about the local wordsmith creates a soothing background with which to scowl at his too-open calendar.

Oh, he knows the broad strokes. Those never change. The author is Martian. The series showed her what was truly important and changed her life, etc. etc. 

He hasn’t been here very long, in the grand scheme of things. Either on Mars or in this particular parlour. And yet the lure of his name is already fading. Three weeks ago his schedule was fit to bursting, and now he has a free morning with a single consultation in the early afternoon. Normally, he would brush it aside as an off day, they happen, no matter the shop, city or planet. But if twice is simply a coincidence then three times makes a pattern, and three off days in three weeks is not something that happens to a renowned name like Peter _Ransom_. 

Well, he is at least booked enough to keep the lights on and his travel fund full and that is all that matters. No matter Mars' many delights and attractions, he was never meant to stay here, and once his contract is up, it will be on to the next adventure. 

A new planet, and city and parlour and maybe even a new name. 

Nureyev makes all the right noises at the right times. Yes, yes, the haircut inspired by the main character’s best friend looks wonderful on you. I’m sure one day your prince will come. Nick Neptune will, of course, fall head over heels for you and whisk you away on his hovercycle. Queen of the Freeway, yes, yes. 

Perhaps it's time to bring Duke Rose out of retirement…granted he’s only been ‘in retirement’ for five years. But there is something to be said for his use of colour and impressionism, Nureyev’s missed that with this current nomme de plume. Still, he has at least three weeks left on the chair rental, and therefore whatever nebulous plans he has for the ever changing future he will tuck away in his mind, to be determined at a later date. 

“So, Miasma opened your morning for walk-ins, seeing as it’s free,” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Nureyev yanks his attention and focus back to the present. 

“I know! Oh, believe me, honey, I tried to tell her that an artist of your calibre simply does not do walk-ins! To have a client walk in off the street and take whatever half baked idea they happen to put in front of you, no time for pleasantries, for conversation, to allow the majesty of their dream become a vision of your work on their skin!” Nova throws her arm up to her forehead, causing her gauzy robe to slip off her shoulder and expose the piece Nureyev did for her - a globe in jewel tones, the curve of which showing not continents, but the swirling galaxies that make up the known universe. One of his better works, if he says so himself. “But she was insistent!”

“What a shame,” Nureyev hisses, and then, louder and more wistfully, “what a _shame_ , truly! I woke up this morning thinking what a beautiful day it would be to take my sketchbook down to that charming little café you’re always raving about and,” he casts about for something suitable to the brooding artist persona that Nova has imagined for him and he can’t help but live up to. “drink in the atmosphere, letting the space inform my work.” There, that sounded suitably up-ones-own-ass. 

“No,” Nova gasps, one clawed hand coming up to literally grasp at her pearls, “no, you must go!”

Nureyev affects a frown, “But Nova,” he protests, weakly. 

“You **must**.” She says.

“How could I neglect my duties here? Miasma,” he says, counting on her interruption.

“Oh, you leave that to me. I’ll tell her you had an emergency! I’ll tell her it was life or death! I’ll tell her... oh who cares what I’ll tell her, just go!”

“I...shall!”

“Oh,” the high stakes drama fades out of her voice as quickly as it entered. “be a lamb and bring me back a coffee, would you? Something off the seasonal special menu.”

“Of course,” Nureyev says, edging closer to the doorway, to freedom.

“And a piece of carrot cake to go, they make the best carrot cake in all of Mars, I swear it!”

“Goes without saying,” he nods. 

“Actually, I want the butternut squash spice mylk latte, with extra whip,”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Actually! Just ask if Rita’s there and have her make anything she wants, that lady is a genius!”

“Anything for you, my will, my whim, my westward wind!” He blows her a kiss that she grabs with both hands, pressing it to her heart, and he’s off!

If only he knew where he was supposed to be going. 

Hyperion City is not small, and while Nova’s purse is large and her reach quite far, she is also exceptionally lazy when she wishes to be, and bores quickly. As she is a regular of this establishment, it’s bound to be nearby. Still, that doesn’t give him a solid starting point, when all the cardinal directions lie open to him. 

It would also be helpful if he could remember a name with which to ask passersby.

Nevertheless, he’s found more elusive things with half the clues, and if it gets him out of walk-in duty, Nureyev will gladly spend the whole of his morning traipsing about Hyperion’s many boroughs and neighborhoods. 

...It should go without saying that he becomes unfortunately lost, unfortunately quickly. 

It is not that Peter Nureyev lacks a sense of direction. On the contrary, his mind is keen and actually rather apt at memorizing routes and pathways. It’s not even that he becomes turned around in the many similar streets!

It’s only. He hasn’t had much cause to explore this particular part of Hyperion, despite the fact he happens to live and work in it. 

No, the glamour of Minerva Heights and the glitz of Uptown’s speciality boutiques had drawn him as surely as the botanical gardens in Elysium Square had. Away from the dreary, commercialized, neon center of the city. 

Finally, he stops beside a large man loading empty crates onto the back of a hovercycle. He has a green jacket with a seven on the back, and smiles winningly when Nureyev politely interrupts him. 

“Sorry, buddy, I’m all cleared out here, but I’ll be hittin’ the kitchens after lunch though, so no need to worry. You’ll be getting some damn fine food from the Cart!”

“No,” Nureyev says. Tries to say, rather.

“Uh...off the cart? At the cart? How does that saying go, I always get it messed up. And then Jay yells at me, and then Rita yells at him, and then Vespa growls at Rita, and then Jet yells without really yelling at all and that’s always scary —” The man continues to move, testing the straps, and grabbing his helmet

“Excuse me,” Nureyev says, again, for the fourth time now, his polite smile less appreciative and more painted over a pained grimace. “I’m looking for a café, I was supposed to meet my friend there at ten, but I’m afraid I’m dreadfully late,”

“Ten?!” The man yelps. He drags up his sleeve, revealing a...well it must be some kind of a watch, but it looks cobbled together from three different watches and maybe a sundial to boot. “Oh, no, aw jeez, Jet is gonna kill me!”

“The café?” Nureyev presses, as the man throws his leg over the hovercycle and starts to drive away in a hurry.

“Just follow the white rabbits! You can’t miss it!” He calls over his shoulder before turning a corner and disappearing into the rush of traffic. 

“The white rabbits,” Nureyev repeats helplessly. He looks to the nearest signpost and, sure enough, there is a sticker - a logo. A stylized cartoon of a...franky, monstrous looking rabbit wearing a waistcoat and holding a serving tray.

_The Carte Blanche_

Well, he has his heading, then. 

It's insultingly easy to find the café once he begins. Only a couple streets away, in fact. The single allowance he will give himself for missing the busy little shop is it’s general location. Tucked in a crowded one-way street in the part of town that used to be an industrial district before it went through a grand gentrification some years ago and was then left to rot back into a cheap, disused former-city-center. As a result, the whole neighborhood has the same look to it, cracked sidewalks, squat shop fronts with fading paint all set on narrow, alley-like roads.

Despite the grimey facades of the buildings around it— the crumbling brick and worn stucco —the shop itself has a charming, cheery yellow door with that same white rabbit grudgingly offering its tray of tea. 

It’s well put together, this place. Nureyev can tell that much even with the quick glance he is able to give as the line moves. Worn but warm, if a little cramped. And the line isn’t as outrageous as Nova always bemoans, which either means his dawdling has served him well, saving him from the rush, or that Nova was, once again, playing up minor inconveniences for the sake of drama. And, honestly, either is probable.

Every space that could comfortably fit a table has one, along with some spots that can uncomfortably fit one. Several conversations layer over a radio turned low, almost drowning out the constant city drum, and with every inhale Nureyev is swept away by the scent of coffee, yeast and sugar. 

More than one aspiring artist has settled in to do exactly what Nureyev himself is planning to (provided the quality of the coffee matches the casual comfort of the atmosphere, that is). Satisfied he won't feel out of place if he lingers for a few hours, he turns his attention toward the till, hoping to see a menu of some kind. _Expecting_ to see the usual cheerful and efficient staff, with polite but empty smiles and a hurried manner. Instead he finds himself snagged on the vision of loveliness behind the counter. Of course, the dusty rose apron is pin-perfect and his make-up is applied flawlessly but there’s an air about him. It’s not just the unhidden contempt for his lot in life but a real sense of something powerful that lives under his skin.

Unbidden, Nureyev’s fingers begin to itch for his pen.

“I want to see your manager!” the jackanape in front of him fumes, and when did Nureyev get so close to the front of the line? Had he been so rudely enraptured in the server’s austere beauty he didn’t notice the slow ebb and flow of people around him?

How… how very odd.

Normally, Nureyev is not the type to step in on such a scene. It draws the type of attention he would usually prefer to avoid. But the urge to step in this time, to draw that ire filled gaze onto himself is almost too much to resist.

And then, in this dimly lit cafe it’s almost as if the buildings shift and the sun shines through as the server — smiles. 

It’s not, by any means, a kind smile. Certainly it’s a nice smile, a dimple peeks from the short stubble on his left cheek. But there’s a deep, smug satisfaction in that smile, a petulant pettiness that oozes in a way Nureyev, against all better judgment, finds completely charming.

“I _am_ the manager.”

Nureyev allows the exchange to continue for a few minutes longer, content to soak up the snark and revel in an arrogant consumer being put firmly in their place until the ignorant corkscrew in front of him starts actually yelling, spittle flying from a puce face, mustache all a quiver. 

He sighs. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," he says in his oiliest, most unapologetic tone, "but I simply could not help but overhear."

He lays a light hand over the bumbling twit's shaking forearm, meeting the frothing gaze with a sympathetic smile. "Why, it's getting to be almost impossible to berate the help with impunity these days!"

"I beg-" they start and Nureyev cuts them off, squeezing their arm warmly.

"I mean, how hard could it possibly be to have a -" turning, he drops his voice into his normal register, addressing the beautiful barista for the first time. "excuse me, what was it?”

With both eyebrows arched up incredulously, the barista replies in a tone dry as the Martian desert. "Half calf, half sweet, apple caramel cappuccino, two pumps of chocolate, extra hot, extra foam _with_ whipped cream." 

"Good god, people actually order that?"

Those dark blue eyes finally flick over from the graceless harpy, landing on his lips as he speaks and then Nureyev is treated to the enchanting sight of the pretty barista actually _seeing_ him for the first time. The slight flutter of lashes as he really takes in the person in front of him...and the slight curling of his wide, mobile mouth as he decides that he likes what he sees. "Apparently."

Turning back to the gentlethem and returning to his simper, Nureyev says "how hard could it possibly be to make a half calf, half sweet, apple caramel cappuccino, with two pumps of chocolate, extra hot, and extra foam with whipped cream exactly as you asked for it?"

"I-, it wasn't," They sputter.

“Exactly!” He replies with the kind of enthusiasm that is much, much more Perseus Shah than it is Peter Nureyev. Which is, on its own, troubling. Despite the assumed names he uses for work, he has come very far from the man his father attempted to raise. It’s disconcerting to say the least to have these old tricks rush back to him, and worse to feel the thrill as they do. “Why, I knew just from looking at you that you were the type of person to not only expect exceptional service, above and beyond, as they say, but then demand it if the slightest small thing was not up to your exacting standards!” 

The words were insulting, the tone ingratiating and it was all said much too quickly to pull apart which was which in the moment.

He had, once, been very good at this. 

And just as Nureyev knew they would, the poor daft thing puffs up with their own self-importance. “You know,” they start. 

But the trick to this specific, successful con is timing. He can’t afford to give the painted peacock a second to cool down and think. “I do! Just look at your coat, my good Mx.”

Fine material cut thin. Wrong shape entirely. Too long sleeves. Definitely worth less than paid for. Either the salesperson had been very good at their job, or, and this was much more likely, the honking goose before him had pinpointed on whatever was most expensive and thus, in-fashion and bought that regardless of good taste.

“My coat?”

“Why yes! I have a fine eye for coats, threads of all sorts, if I’m being honest and you can always tell a person of great character by their clothes! ‘There are suits that wear people and then there are people who wear suits,’ as my mother would always say.”

“Oh,” they preen.

“And as a person of great character, I cannot imagine why you would waste another second in such a place as this.”

“Well,”

“Surely it is in fashion, and surely it has the best reviews, and surely I saw Nova Zolotovna drinking her coffee here just last week,” Nureyev begins to gently turn the barking gopher around. 

“Nova Zolotovna, the heiress?” he hears whispered off to the side and fights the age old urge to wince. It’s been a long time since Nureyev’s ‘worked’ at all, let alone in front of an audience.

“Comes in a couple times a week, she likes Rita’s drinks,” the barista shrugs. “She’s the one with the,” he gestures vaguely at his own head.

He shouldn’t, but…he can’t resist.

“She’s really very proud of that haircut,” he says, again in his normal tone.

“Way better, right?” The barista grins impishly and he can’t help but smile back.

If only for a second. Then he continues to turn the vapid fool, who blinks as though only just realizing they’re being guided. “But, sir!” They protest. 

“Annabell Caine,” he gives them the name with a cloyingly sweet smile, wishing for a moment he had a business card to go with it, but...he doesn’t dabble in that kind of art any longer. 

“Mr. Caine,” they try.

“Oh, you must call me Anna!” He insists. 

“My business is not finished here.”

“Ah, your coffee, how could I forget?” Nureyev reaches one arm back and finds the cup waiting for him, held out by the barista. “I truly don’t see why you would lower yourself to giving such a _heart_ less establishment your custom.”

“You’re right,” they swagger forward, shaking off his arm thoughtlessly and not looking back. They’re talking fast, ready to talk well over him if he tries to interrupt again, but that’s not the point anymore. He’s wound them up, and now he gets to watch them go. “I am too good for this place! I am leaving! They have lost a customer and they will never find my equal, because there is no equal!” 

They go on for some time, or they must, because they are still ranting when the door closes behind them and the clacking of their impractical and frankly hideous stilletto’s fade into the distance. 

And look, they left their watch in his hand, how clumsy of them.

Nureyev tucks it away into one of his many pockets. He isn’t intending to keep it, nor is he planning to sell it, but there is likely some local lost-and-found he can drop it by if nothing else. 

“Well,” he smiles, “that takes care of that, eh?”

“You know who that was, right?”

Ah, yes. The audience. Just the one, now, the pretty barista who’d caught Nureyev’s eye from the second he walked in. Taking a second, he shrugs the last of Shah off of himself like a poorly fitted coat and tucks the edges of that man away. 

“No, should I?”

The look he’s treated to is so sharp it could almost cut. Not the appreciative glance from before, but a detailed up and down, almost like a risk assessment. “How’d you do that?” 

A dozen pretty lies come to mind, and a dozen more deflections after that. He smiles without teeth, keeping it friendly, and that sharp glaze lands on his mouth again. 

“My father was a con man,” is what slides out of his mouth instead of any of the things he probably should have said.

“So that was a con?” the barista tilts his head, unwilling to be impressed.

Admirable. “No,” he doesn’t want to impress him, he reminds himself. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. “technically that was the power of suggestion. There is a right way to talk to every person, one just has to find it.”

“You found theirs all right,” the barista says. 

“It wasn’t hard,” he shrugs, forgetting that he doesn’t want to be impressive. Or charming. Or available. 

The whisperer from earlier clears his throat pointedly as he passes by, lithe and youthful with large dark eyes, lustrous wavy black hair and skin like the petals of a terra nostra rose - soft and delicate. And between his glow and the striking beauty of deep skin and dark blue eyes behind the counter, Nureyev has to wonder if all the employee’s at this particular café are exceedingly gorgeous or just the ones he’s happened to run into so far. 

Come to think of it, even the delivery man who pointed him this way had been handsome, in a simple, classic kind of way. 

His barista rolls his eyes, and says in a voice flatter than Nureyev’s own chest. “Welcome to  
_The Carte Blanche_ , where you order a la carte, how may I help you today?”

Needing to avert his eyes so as not to laugh in the barista’s face, he turns his attention for the first time to the board streaked with chalk dust from everyday erasings. “Ah,” he says, completely overwhelmed by the many overlapping names, sizes and prices. “I’m afraid I might take a moment to decide. This is my first visit to _The Carte Blanche_.”

“What do you think?”

“It was highly recommended,” Nureyev replies, still attempting to figure out exactly how one might work brownie batter into espresso and why anyone would order it. “I can see why.”

Despite his attention on the menu above, he doesn’t miss the way the barista glows with even that faint praise. Like he’s proud of the café and its reputation.

“I’m sorry, this might take a second,” Nureyev says, apologetically. 

“Oh no,” the barista says, deeply sarcastic in a way that would be biting if not for the smirk pulling at his lips. “look at all the people you’re holding up, how dare you?” He gestures at the empty queue behind Nureyev and then badly stifles a yawn.

“Yes, well,” he hesitates and then kicks himself for the hesitation. It’s not flirting. It’s no more than he would or has asked for in the past. “what would you recommend, to an indecisive new customer? I’m afraid I am quite out of my depth.”

“What do you normally get?” 

Reasonable question, reasonable tone. Nothing to cause the ridiculous fluttering he feels inside his chest.

“Coffee, plain,” he admits with a small smile. “But my coworker has raved about this place for weeks, you see,”

“And you wanna see if it’s really worth the fuss?”

“Precisely.”

“I can’t fault you for wanting to come to your own conclusion, I guess,” he shrugs, “but we are worth it.”

He leans on the counter in a way that pulls his shirt across his broad shoulders and Nureyev manages to look away just as he notices the lingering glance.

Caught.

He prepares an apology if necessary but the barista just presses his lips together as though fighting a smile.

“I’ve got some questions before we get to recommendations,” he says.

“Alright.”

“Game?” He actually takes out a small notepad from his apron and poises a pen above it.

“If you are,” Nureyev says, completely charmed and forgetting all the very good reasons he has not to be.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, but I do enjoy tea.”

“Coffee forward or milk forward?”

“Coffee forward.” 

“Makes sense. Sweet or savory.”

“Savory over sweet, but I’ll admit it’s not a strong preference.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Those sharp eyes dart up to his face for a heartbeat of time before dropping back. “Preferences, religious restrictions or allergens?”

“Nothing too spicy, no, and not that I am aware of.”

The barista nods, the puff of hair piled on top of his head bouncing with his surety, and taps his pen on the paper. “And the name was, Ann-”

Nureyev cuts him off, “Entirely fake, I’m afraid.”

“Pity, it was a nice one,” he snorts.

“Well, I’m sure it’s someone’s name, just not mine.”

“And yours is?”

“So forward!” Nureyev teases him, able to keep it light enough for the propriety he should probably be showing.

He coughs, and though Nureyev’s spent these last minutes admiring the sharp wing of his eyeliner and how well he wears the deep purple lipstick, he wishes now that he could tell whether or not this man was the type to blush. “I’ll need it, for the cup. If you’re having coffee that is.”

“Peter Nureyev,” he says and forces himself not to pause, not to panic as his true and legal name falls off his tongue and is spoken aloud for the first time in years. “and you?”

“Juno,” he offers, and Nureyev is quite thankful that his perceptive gaze rests on the cup in his hands and not Nureyev’s own face so he can savor the name and commit it to memory. “So, Peter,”

“Nureyev, please,” he interrupts with a quiet laugh. 

“Another fake?”

“No, but I’m afraid that I have the horrible urge to tell whoever calls me ‘Peter’ that they are not my parents.”

He snorts, and though Nureyev cannot tell if he is being laughed _at_ or _with_ he finds he doesn’t care. “Okay, Nureyev, you want me to tell you what I suggest or what you’re getting?”

‘I’ll take anything you want to give,’ is on the tip of his tongue before Nureyev harshly reminds himself that saying it out loud would be highly inappropriate and not at all attractive.

“Please, go on, I’m quite enjoying myself,” he says instead and counts it as a win when it sounds only mildly suggestive. “Although I do need to add, for my coworker’s sake, a drink made by Rita, if she’s in, and a slice of carrot cake.”

“Huh,” his eyebrows arch up his forehead again, and he shakes his head. “Anything for dessert?”

“Not usually, but I could be persuaded?” He says, not as much hinting as he is hoping to have a reason to stay just a little longer.

Juno fidgets with his pen, twirling it between his deft fingers as he punches in the order he’s chosen for Nureyev. “The uh, the lady who runs the place is pretty proud of the madeleine’s.”

“Cookies?”

“Cakes, really. Small, not too sweet, usually flavored lightly with some kind of citrus.”

“They sound delicious, my compliments to the lady who runs the place,” Nureyev says and Juno stops trying to hide the small, pleased smile that he’s been fighting with for the latter half of their conversation. It flickers across his face like a candle flame, warm but unsure and Nureyev...is not given to drawing for the sake of it. 

He lost the passion that comes from art for art’s own sake long ago. But here, in this moment, looking at that smile, his hands itch to preserve it somehow. 

“To stay or to go?”

Another easy question marked only by a slight disappointment when the bell over the door rings, and Juno’s attention splits off, preparing to greet the customer. 

Or that’s what Nureyev was assuming would happen.

What he actually does is straighten up from his sumptuous lean against the till, prompting Nureyev to realize just how close they’d gotten, drawn into each other’s orbit like neighboring stars and halted only by the slab of sim-wood between them — and bark “Annie!” at the harried young woman rushing in. 

“Sorry! Sorry! I know I’m late, but,”

“Backroom, _now_ Annie.”

“Jeeze, Juno,” she ducks under the counter rather than go around, tying up her thick mass of black hair as she does so. “what’s the big deal, I’m a few minutes late, so what?”

“I mean it, Annie,” Juno snaps, following her into the backroom, all flirtation apparently forgotten.

What a pity. Nureyev allows himself to stare after him for a moment, just to admire the fit of his slacks, he swears, before refocusing as a...very short woman with thick glasses and a dress in day-glo green beneath her rose apron bounces to take over. She has to pull a stool over to see over the till. 

“I got a dry cappuccino with coconut foam, a Rita Special, a veggie quiche, a slice of carrot cake and a set of madeline’s for a Mr. Nureyev? Is that to stay or to go?”

He had planned to spend a few hours here and plan for his meeting later that afternoon, which is to say, he would probably doodle out a few ideas and end up coming up with something the second he met with the client, as these things usually went. 

The voices from the back rise and crash, very emotional and just as unintelligible. 

“To go, thank you,” he says, finally. 

“Alright! Here ya go, thank you for coming to _The Carte Blanche_ , where you order a la carte!” She deposits a small box full of treats on the counter and stacks a drink tray on top of it.

“Oh, I haven’t paid yet.”

“Oh it's on the house,” she giggles, high and nasal, pushing the boxes across the sim-wood and placing a business card neatly on top of the whole thing. “You can come back _any_ time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My addition to my team’s project for the Trans Nureyev Agenda discord minibang! Working with North and Sage, watching the idea develop, and getting to take part in it was a treat. A TREAT.
> 
> North (northisnotup) is the ever talented writer and Sage (leetlepansyboy) is recording a joy of a podfic! My piece is based on a future scene, with a snippet of course written by the lovely North!

“Come home with me,” he breathes, and when Juno gives in, stretching up to kiss him, his lips are sticky and he tastes like burnt sugar and it's all Juno can do not to melt into the embrace. Hands, slender and gritty with flour slide along Juno’s neck and cup his cheek, tilting his head for a deeper angle just as Nureyev’s tongue slides along his lower lip. Juno whimpers without meaning to and clutches him closer. The ever present noise of the city dims and mutes under the slick noises of their mouths, the hitching breaths Juno can’t stop and the thumping bass of Juno’s own heart in his ears.


End file.
